


the pins and needles of loving you

by starstrung



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Lighthouses, M/M, Saving Each Other, Set in Episodes 159-160 | Scottish Safehouse Period
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-15
Updated: 2020-04-15
Packaged: 2021-03-02 00:35:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,593
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23666227
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/starstrung/pseuds/starstrung
Summary: There is a lighthouse in the Lonely.
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan Sims
Comments: 17
Kudos: 177





	the pins and needles of loving you

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to [News](https://archiveofourown.org/users/newsbypostcard/pseuds/newsbypostcard) and [Steph](https://archiveofourown.org/users/hawkcycle) for yelling about the nightmare merchant with me.

There is a lighthouse in the Lonely.

Martin spends a long time staring at it from afar, its steeple rising out of the fog. Somehow, finding this hidden thing in the forsaken landscape of the Lonely seems to give scale to the rest of it, to the striking emptiness around him. Which, he supposes, is kind of the point. He has to hand it to Peter — it’s a nice touch.

The lighthouse is lit, but its light seems muted, unable to penetrate through the fog. It looks ancient, and Martin wonders just how long ago it was swallowed up by the Lonely. And what may have happened to its keepers.

Martin takes his time walking towards it. He has plenty of time now. There is no one waiting for him there, no one he’s beholden to anymore, no one who might miss him. It’s nice.

The loneliness feels suddenly keener once he reaches the lighthouse. Martin stands outside its door for a long time. It just looks so _real_ , so normal, a piece of the world he left behind dropped here in front of him as if to remind him that the people who built this and lived here are gone. He’ll never be a part of that world again. 

Martin smiles to himself, and begins to climb the lighthouse. He reaches the lantern room, the lit beacon in the middle filling the space with a cold light. From here, he can see out into the fog, into all the nothingness out there.

It’s a good place to be alone. Nothing hurts here.

He stays there and watches the fog roll in.

  
  
  
  


Martin is being watched.

It knocks him out of his stupor, the feeling of eyes on him. It’s so jarring, so out of place here. Here of all places, he should be invisible, unseen, unregarded. And yet there’s that creeping familiar feeling on the back of his neck that he hasn’t felt since he was back in the Archives, since Elias, since… Jon.

And then as if thinking the name summoned him, there Jon is, standing at the foot of the lighthouse, the pale light being cast on his gaunt, upturned face, his trembling shoulders.

“Martin,” Jon calls, relief plain on his face. He’s happy to see Martin. 

“Leave me alone,” Martin says down to him. It should be too far for Jon to hear him, but of course physics don’t work the same way here — his voice echoes endlessly as if he’s standing at the mouth of a cavern.

“I’m coming up,” Jon says determinedly. “I’m getting you out.”

“I wish you would go away,” Martin says, and he puts enough will into it, and between one blink and the next, Jon is gone.

Martin is alone again. He sits on the floor with his knees drawn up and lets himself go cold once again.

  
  
  


Of course, Jon is stubborn. Of course, Jon still keeps searching for him.

That anxious, furrowed brow, the familiar dark circles under Jon’s eyes — looking at Jon hurts Martin so much. It always has. It’s a funny thing, that there used to be a time when Martin would ache to look at Jon, would come up with excuses to make him tea or help him file just so he could be in the same room. And all the while, that slow poison working in his chest, that terrible, awful pain choking in his throat. He had loved Jon.

“Why are you here?” Martin asks Jon. This time, Jon has made it as far as the foot of the stairs. Martin looks down at him across all that distance, and is glad that he can’t see Jon’s face very well, distorted by fog and the thick veil that hangs in the air in this place, like looking through tears.

“I can’t leave you here,” Jon says. “You’ve pulled me out of so many places before. It’s time for me to return the favor. Please come down. Please.” He sounds so desperate, so earnest, his hand raised palm up as if he expects Martin to take his hand. Martin wishes he could tell Jon that he didn’t need to worry anymore.

“I’m safe here,” Martin tells him. “Nothing hurts here. It only hurts when—” Martin hesitates.

“When what?” Jon prompts, and there’s some compulsion there hanging in the cadence of his voice, not strong enough to really press at Martin, but not weak enough that he can fully ignore it either. While he’s grappling with this, Jon takes one careful step up the stairs. Martin feels his peace shattering bit by bit every time Jon draws nearer.

“When you’re here,” Martin answers, and then calls on whatever sway he has with the Lonely to send Jon away again. Jon is pulled away, but not before Martin sees the stricken devastation on Jon’s face.

It’s easy not to think about it though. Martin feels numb again, now that Jon is gone. 

  
  
  


Jon keeps trying. He’s getting further and further up the steps, clawing his way up even as the Lonely presses him down. He cares _so much._ Martin vaguely remembers a time when he used to care that much, but it’s getting harder to think about those memories. Perhaps they happened to someone else.

“Stop sending me away,” Jon growls, and it’s because he looks so _irritated_ that Martin lets him stay a little longer this time. He doesn’t know why. There’s something in him that still wants to please Jon, he supposes. 

“You dropped me in the _ocean_ last time,” Jon says. “I could have drowned.”

“Then stop coming here,” Martin says.

“I can’t do that.”

“Why not?”

“Peter’s dead,” Jon says. “I— I think I killed him, Martin. You can leave now.”

“Peter wasn’t tying me to this place,” Martin says. 

“No, I don’t suppose he was,” Jon says quietly. “Once you’re in this place, it’s hard to see the point in leaving, isn’t it? It’s hard to find your way back out. Like when I walked into the Buried. Do you remember that, Martin? When I went into the coffin?”

“Yes,” says Martin, the memory coming to him slowly like it’s being drawn out of somewhere hidden. “You were lost down there. You were gone for too long.”

Jon nods. “Yes. But do you remember, what brought me back?”

“I did,” says Martin, his voice barely a whisper. It gives Jon time to take two more steps up the lighthouse stairs, the exertion pulling visibly at him. He’s getting stronger, more resistant against the power of this place. 

Martin says, “I left those tapes there, for you. To call you home. Give you an anchor.”

“I was coming home to you. You were my anchor, Martin,” Jon says. “Please, I need you to—” Jon reaches out his hand, stretches across the distance separating them, and he’s close enough that he’s almost able to take Martin’s hand. Martin feels panic rising in him — if Jon takes his hand now, how will he be able to bear it when they have to let go of each other again?

“I’m sorry, Jon,” Martin says, and Jon’s swear is cut off as he’s swept away again by the Lonely.

  
  
  


The next time, Jon makes it all the way up to the lantern room.

The Lonely has visibly taken its toll on him by now. Jon’s skin is grayer than it’s ever been, his hair hanging lifeless and flat, something wild and despairing in his eyes. He strides straight up to Martin and before Martin can react, takes him by the shoulders.

Martin almost cries out with the sensation of being touched. Pins and needles shoot up his arms, the numbness breaking into a million piercing pieces. His eyes well up with tears at the impact.

“Now listen to me, Martin,” says Jon fiercely. “I know you think you want to be here, I know you think it’s safer, and well, maybe it is. But we need you.” Jon’s breath shudders, he’s leaning all his weight on Martin’s shoulders now like he exhausted himself getting up the stairs. “ _I_ need you,” Jon says.

Martin smiles a little, pitying Jon in this moment. “No, you don’t. Not really. Everyone’s alone, but we all survive.”

Jon shakes Martin by his shoulders, fury twisting in his face. “I don’t just want to survive!”

“I’m sorry.” Martin takes Jon’s wrists and tries to pull his hands off of his shoulders, but Jon digs his fingers in. The sensation of pins and needles amplifies, the feeling of it stinging so intensely that Martin gasps a little.

Jon says, “Look at me and tell me what you see.” Jon’s voice goes suddenly thunderous as the compulsion burns its way through. For a moment, Jon’s face doesn’t look as it should — too many unblinking eyes, all rolling in sockets that shouldn’t exist to lock onto Martin. Martin can’t look away. He can’t stop himself from speaking.

“I see…” Martin begins.

He sees Jon. Jon, who followed him into this forsaken place. Jon who wouldn’t give up no matter how many times Martin cast him deeper into the Lonely. Jon who can barely stand under the oppressive weight of all this loneliness, his eyes pleading with Martin even as they burn into him with the same power he just used to kill Peter Lukas.

“I see you,” Martin says, and he laughs a little even as he begins to cry. “I _see_ you.”

Jon — _oh_ — Jon pulls him into a hug, and Martin buries his face into Jon’s shoulder, his chest heaving with sobs. He hasn’t let himself feel these emotions in so long, and they come pouring out of him, a deep relentless catharsis. It is such a relief to just be _held_.

“Martin,” Jon says shakily.

“I was on my own,” Martin says. “I was all on my own.”

“Not anymore,” Jon promises. He rubs Martin’s back with his hands. Jon probably means it as a soothing gesture but he’s frankly terrible at it, keeps stopping and starting like he’s second guessing himself. Martin loves him dearly for it. 

Jon pulls away and Martin feels panic and fear and an empty, terrible hunger grip him all at once until Jon takes Martin’s hand in his own. Martin squeezes Jon’s hand gratefully and the panic subsides. He can’t go back to that gray stupor again.

“Let’s go home,” Jon says. 

“How?” Martin asks, because other than the lighthouse and the endless pale sea, there is nothing here.

“Don’t worry,” Jon says grimly. “I know the way.”

One by one, they descend the lighthouse steps. For Martin, it feels like being pulled out of a lake he was drowning in — at some points Jon has to pull him with both hands when all Martin wants to do is sit down and put his face into his hands and will the pain away.

“Almost there,” Jon says. “Almost there, Martin.” It’s the way Jon’s saying his name, maybe, that gives Martin the courage to brave those last few steps. He’s saying it with so much _warmth_. Every time, it breaks so much of the ice that’s threatening to encase him. As if he knows this, Jon says his name again and again, encouraging him on further with it, saying it softly when Martin falters.

They reach the door of the lighthouse at last.

“It’ll fall once I leave,” Martin says, standing at the threshold. “I think my loneliness was what brought it here in the first place.”

Jon’s face twists with anger again. He’s not angry at _Martin_ , but at something else. Martin wants to take Jon’s face in his hands and smooth over the lines between his brows with his thumbs. It’s a familiar instinct, one he’s felt many times before.

“Then let it,” Jon says savagely. “Let this whole place crumble.”

With Jon leading him, Martin takes that last step out. The lighthouse doesn’t fall to pieces, not like a real lighthouse would, but as soon as Martin steps out of it, it begins to fade and turn to fog. Jon and Martin turn to watch, hand in hand, as it disappears completely, no sign left of it. Now there is only the sea.

“Funny that it was a lighthouse of all things,” Jon says. “The light helped me see where you were. Did you want to be found?”

Martin considers this. “I don’t know,” he says honestly. “I didn’t think anyone would come looking. But I suppose I didn’t want to be forgotten.” 

Jon squeezes his hand. “Come on,” he says. “It’s this way.”

And Martin follows Jon out of the Lonely. The grayness recedes.

  
  
  


They’re halfway to the safehouse when Jon turns to him, and says, “You’ve gone quiet again.”

Martin shakes his head and it knocks some of the fog loose. He reaches across the train compartment to take Jon’s hand again, and that helps drive it away too. “I can’t help it,” Martin says. 

“If you leave, I’ll just follow you back in,” Jon says. He’s trying for a light tone, but his eyes meet Martin’s for a moment and Martin can tell that Jon is worried.

“I won’t leave,” Martin says, and perhaps the act of saying it is enough. If he wants to stay here with Jon and hold him and follow him wherever he goes to make sure he’s safe, then the Lonely can’t take him again, can it? “I won’t leave, I promise,” he says, this time with more confidence.

Jon nods, but Martin can still sense his unease.

“You just — I see you go foggy again sometimes,” Jon says. “All pale and see-through.”

Martin looks down at his hands. They seem substantial to him. “Oh. Sorry.”

“Don’t — don’t _apologize_ ,” Jon says, and Martin can’t help but smile at the familiar irritation in his voice. Jon sees his smile — and isn’t it novel that Martin doesn’t have to hide his fond looks anymore — and flushes red all over. 

“What?” Jon says, clearly embarrassed.

Martin shakes his head. “Nothing,” he says, not bothering to hide his amusement.

Jon huffs at him, but Martin sees him briefly struggle to hide a pleased smile. “I’m serious. If you feel yourself going, then tell me. It might take you a while to recover from being in there for so long.”

“I don’t think it works quite like that,” Martin says. “It’s not like I can feel it coming on like a sneeze or something.”

“Then what is it like?” Jon says. Jon is being very careful about asking questions, saying them slowly and without intention, so that he doesn’t trigger his power. Martin appreciates it, but he knows he would also bare all his moving parts, his dreams, his fears, all of it, if Jon needed him to. He just hopes it never comes to that — neither of them would be quite the same after.

“It’s like—” Martin struggles to come up with an answer that doesn’t sound too bleak. “It’s hard for me to feel connected to the world anymore, I suppose. Once you leave it behind, once you cut yourself off, it’s hard to care about being part of it again. I can’t imagine myself waking up in this world tomorrow, and the day after that, and the day after that. I know I will, of course, but it doesn’t feel like it’ll be _me_ doing it. Like I’ll just be going through the motions. So sometimes it’s easy to… drift.”

Martin makes a face, cringing at his own words. “Does that make any sense?”

There is a soft, sad look on Jon’s face, and Martin finds himself completely helpless to it. “It does,” Jon says, softly. “What brings you back? When you feel yourself drifting?” he asks, and this time he forgets to be careful about it, so that Martin briefly feels like his head is churning with static.

“ _You_ do,” Martin says automatically, like the answer was on the tip of his tongue all along. He’ll never get used to the feeling of his thoughts being pulled out of him like that, but this time it feels almost freeing, to be able to say it out loud without his own inhibitions fighting him.

Jon’s face immediately crumples once he realizes what he’s done. “Oh god, Martin, I didn’t mean to—”

Martin squeezes Jon’s hand, and smiles. “It’s all right. I wanted you to know.”

Jon blinks several times, and then draws himself up again.

“You were my anchor before. I can be your anchor now,” Jon says in a clipped voice, like this is something entirely rational and not the declaration of devotion that they both know it is. “I can pull you back from the Lonely until, well, until you find your footing again. You’ll find it again. You’ll see.” Jon gives a very firm, reassuring pat to Martin’s hand as it’s holding his own.

They fall silent again, but this time Martin has the pleasure of being entirely present in his own body, Jon’s hand held warm in his own.

“You know, this is the longest conversation I’ve had with anyone in a long time,” Martin remarks, and then regrets it immediately upon seeing the devastated look on Jon’s face.

“Well, I know I’m not great company, but I’m happy to, er, provide that,” Jon says, uncomfortably.

“Do you know any good jokes?” Martin asks dryly.

Jon looks briefly terrified at the prospect of telling a joke. Martin begins to laugh. He laughs until his ribs hurt, and the other passengers start giving them strange looks.

“I didn’t even tell you a joke,” Jon says, mollified.

“No, you didn’t,” Martin says. “We’ll work on that.”

Jon smiles at him. “All right.”

  
  
  
  


“This house doesn’t have any _tea_ ,” Martin says, agonized. “How can a house not have _tea_?”

“I don’t think Daisy has the same cupboard priorities as you do, Martin,” Jon says, leaning against the doorway of the small, cramped kitchen and watching Martin go through the pantry.

“I’m even more terrified of her than I was before,” Martin says. “There’s eight cans of beans, a bag of rice, _two_ bottles of whiskey, and no tea. I think I might pop down to the village for supplies, do you want to come?”

“Have you checked under the sink?” Jon asks. There is a strange note in Jon’s voice, but Martin is already bending down to check under the sink.

“Nothing here,” Martin says. “Don’t know why anyone would keep anything useful under the sink, Jon.”

“You never know,” Jon says, and there’s still that inscrutable note that Martin can’t make any sense of. Martin looks up, and Jon is _laughing_ at him. His eyes have gone crinkled and warm and he’s watching Martin root around in the cupboards in search of tea and _laughing_.

“Hey,” Martin says, a little indignant, a little awed, and then he pushes himself up, walks up to Jon, crowds him into the doorway, and kisses him.

Jon makes a strangled noise against Martin’s lips, like he’s briefly furious at being caught by surprise, and then he’s fisting a hand into Martin’s jumper and kissing him back so vigorously that their noses bump together awkwardly. Martin takes Jon’s face in his hands and kisses him more gently, on the lips, on his cheeks, another on the curve of his brow.

“What was that for,” Jon says softly. His eyes are still closed, his eyelashes casting shadows against his cheekbones, so Martin kisses there too.

“You know what for,” Martin says quietly, with a familiar sadness. Even if Jon never loves him back in the same way, he’s gotten used to living with that, hasn’t he? He can go on living with it. He must.

“Okay,” Jon says. His eyes are still closed, his mouth just slightly open. Martin can hear him breathing, and he thinks about kissing Jon again.

“Okay what?” Martin asks, distracted.

“Okay I’ll come with you to the village,” Jon says. 

Martin blinks at him, and then remembers the tea. 

“Oh,” he says.

Jon opens his eyes. He’s blushing, Martin realizes. “You still want to go, don’t you? I really think I should go with you. You shouldn’t be alone while the Lonely’s mark on you is still this fresh.”

Martin stops himself from pointing out that it was him who asked Jon to go with him to the village in the first place. He takes his hands away from Jon’s face and nods. “Yeah, all right, let’s, er, get some tea. And other things, probably, those as well. Like bread? Maybe I should make a list. A list might be good. Do you—”

Jon exhales very abruptly and jerks himself up to kiss Martin sharply on the lips. It stuns Martin back into silence.

“No lists,” Jon says, roughly. “Let’s go.”

Jon turns away quickly and escapes the room. Martin stands there for a moment longer, unable to stop himself from grinning stupidly.

They walk to the village side by side, their arms brushing against each other’s comfortably. Or rather, it should have been comfortable, but every time it happens, Jon bristles like he’s been spooked by something.

“Jon,” Martin sighs heavily. 

“Yes, Martin?” Jon says tightly.

“You have to relax,” Martin tells him. “You’re making _me_ nervous.”

“Oh, I’m making _you_ nervous,” Jon mutters. “You kissed me.”

“And you kissed me back,” Martin says patiently. “Look, there’s a good cow.” He points.

Jon frowns. “A what?”

Martin turns him gently with a hand on his arm, feels Jon go tense for a moment and then relax. 

“Oh, you meant an actual cow,” Jon says. “What makes this one a good cow? We saw plenty of cows on our way here.”

“This one’s got personality,” Martin says. “She’s got a real charisma, you know?”

From this angle, standing behind him, Martin can see the way the corner of Jon’s mouth quirks up a bit. “All right,” Jon says, humoring him. He points at another cow. “What about that one?”

“I don’t know about that one,” Martin says seriously. “She seems like she’d be a handful.”

Jon shakes his head. “I don’t know where you get all this cow insight from.” There’s a small laugh in his voice when he says it. 

Martin’s hand is still on Jon’s arm. Jon hasn’t stepped away from him. Martin steps closer, slowly, so that Jon has plenty of time to move away if he wants to, and then Jon’s back is flush with Martin’s chest, and Martin has Jon tucked up against him. It feels _right_.

Jon sighs, like he feels it too, and he leans back into Martin so that Martin can feel the warmth of his body against his own.

“Thank you,” Martin says, and presses a kiss to the crown of Jon’s head. Jon makes a tiny noise in the back of his throat.

“For what?” Jon asks.

“For coming to get me.”

“I told you,” Jon says. “I told you I’d be there if you needed me. I told you not to wait too long.”

“I was worried that I _had_ waited too long,” Martin says, quietly.

“You should have let me know, then,” Jon says, and Martin’s heart plummets. He had wondered when Jon was going to broach this particular subject. Jon turns to look at him, his face close enough that he has to tip his head up to look Martin square in the eyes. “You should have explained what you were planning. You put yourself at risk with Peter, you could have—”

“Jon, please,” Martin says. “I couldn’t. I had to keep Peter’s attention on me. I had to make sure you were okay.”

“I wasn’t okay though, was I?” Jon says sharply. “I thought you had given yourself up, I thought he was going to use you and you would never come back. I thought I had lost you.”

Martin says, “I lost you first. I sat at your hospital bed, and didn’t think you would wake up.” He sees Jon’s eyes widen as it registers, his shoulders slumping with defeat as he accepts this. Martin gathers him up in his arms as tightly as he can.

“Let’s call it even, okay?” Martin says. He doesn’t want to fight. They’ve done enough fighting.

“Fine,” Jon says, but there’s no bite to it anymore. He buries his face into Martin’s chest and breathes.

  
  
  
  


They get strange looks in the village, but thankfully no one asks questions. They both have entirely the wrong accents, as a start. Martin looks like he could possibly belong here, but Jon still looks like he came directly from Oxford, stopping along the way to have a months-long coma and several horribly debilitating injuries. 

First, they set up a mailing box so that Basira can send Jon statements. Then they call her on the payphone on the edge of the village to let her know the details. Or rather, Martin calls her while Jon stands on the curb outside and smokes. Even from here, Martin can see the way Jon’s hands shake as he lights his cigarette. He’s going to need to feed soon. 

A redheaded woman goes by on the street, pushing a baby carriage, and there’s something hungry in the way Jon stops smoking to follow her with his eyes. Martin wraps up his call with Basira as quickly as he can and steps out.

“All right?” Martin says carefully. Jon doesn’t _look_ any different. Just a bit peaky, and he always looks a bit peaky. The woman has turned the corner and is out of sight. Jon takes one last drag of his cigarette and stamps it out on the pavement.

“Yes,” Jon says, smiling at Martin as he sees him. Martin is momentarily dazed by how Jon’s entire face softens with it. “Shall we go get that tea?”

The selection at the shop is pretty unimpressive. Martin finds a single box of teabags squashed behind several containers of instant coffee. He’s able to find eggs, bread, milk, and some cereal, but not much beyond that. Jon sorts through the sparse produce section and comes back with some dreary looking bananas and a few bruised apples.

Martin can’t help but make a face at them.

“We’re not in _London_ anymore,” Jon says.

“Couldn’t Daisy at least pick somewhere with a Tesco?” Martin says, sighing, but he puts them all into his basket anyway.

“Pretty sure Daisy’s main criteria for picking a safehouse location was somewhere she could hide a body and not have too many questions asked,” Jon says dryly.

Martin pretends to shudder. “If I smell _anything_ funny from under the floorboards, then we’re leaving and going to a nice hotel somewhere, deal?”

“Deal,” Jon says, smiling, and then moves away to root through the bargain bin of paperbacks.

Martin gets distracted hunting down a skillet he can use — the house doesn’t have anything other than a toaster and a few bowls — and when he looks up, Jon is gone.

He’s probably stepped out for another cigarette, Martin reasons, but when he carries their purchases out of the store, he can’t see Jon anywhere. Martin stands there on the empty street, holding the bags of groceries he thought he was getting for two people, and feels a familiar coldness.

Why would Jon leave without telling him?

Why would Jon abandon him?

Martin begins to walk. He turns the corner, and there’s a small park there. On a park bench is sat the redheaded woman with the baby carriage they saw earlier. And standing on the other side of the street, his eyes trained on her, is Jon.

“Jon,” Martin calls, walking over.

Jon doesn’t answer. Martin steps around Jon to face him. Jon’s eyes look distant, glazed-over, but as soon as Martin breaks his line of sight with the woman, he blinks and focuses on Martin like he’s coming out of a trance.

“Martin,” Jon says, and then looks horrified. “Oh, god. Oh _god_ , I’m sorry, Martin. I didn’t—”

“What did you see,” Martin says. He feels so tired.

“The Dark,” Jon says, his voice gone to a low, pained murmur. “It happened to her as a child. She thought it was a bad case of sleep paralysis.”

“You got all that without talking to her?” Martin asks.

“I didn’t— sometimes I can just catch a glimpse of it. It’s not enough to, to—”

To feed, Martin thinks.

Jon hangs his head. “I’m sorry, Martin. I can usually control myself better than this, I swear I can. Killing Peter, though, I think it— it might have sharpened the hunger.” He sighs. “Whet my appetite, I suppose.”

“Don’t leave me alone again,” Martin says quietly, and here Jon’s head shoots up, his eyes searching Martin’s face. He grips Martin’s arms tightly.

“Martin, you’re here,” Jon says, his voice going harsh and cavernous all at once. “Don’t slip away. Stay here with me. Stay here.”

Some of the fog that Martin didn’t even know was brimming in his chest recedes. Suddenly it’s easier to breathe.

“Fuck,” Martin says, emotions flooding through him again. He’d been so scared. He’d been so scared that Jon had left him behind.

“Let’s go home,” Jon says, and even just hearing Jon call it that, call it _home_ , drives the Lonely away again.

When they get back to the safehouse, they leave the groceries in an untidy heap in the kitchen and pile into the bed and Jon holds him until he’s satisfied that Martin won’t drift away again.

“Can I go make tea now?” Martin asks, after it’s been ten minutes. “Also I should really put away those eggs and milk.”

“No,” Jon says. “Not yet.”

Martin sighs. “I feel fine now.”

“I’ll let you know when you’re fine,” Jon says sternly, but Martin’s beginning to suspect that he just doesn’t want Martin to get up because he’s using Martin’s arm as a pillow and his eyes are beginning to slip shut.

“You probably shouldn’t go to the village again until you get some statements in you,” Martin tells him.

“I think you’re probably right,” Jon says. “But I don’t want you to go there by yourself.”

“I’ll be fine if I know you’re here waiting for me,” Martin says. “It was only when — when I thought you’d gone off without me that it — well.”

Jon makes a sad, hollow noise and scoots forward across the bed to lean his forehead against Martin’s.

“It’s not going to get better, is it,” Martin says. He pushes his fingers lightly through Jon’s hair and savors the small contented sigh that Jon makes. “We’ll always just be a little off.”

“But we’ll keep each other safe,” Jon says. “I think that’s all we can do. We did it today, didn’t we?”

Jon’s words are slurring together, exhaustion finally catching up. It’s probably been a long time since Jon has slept. Martin should let Jon rest.

Instead he reaches over and slips his icy fingers just underneath the collar of Jon’s shirt. Jon’s entire body jerks with surprise.

“Jesus, Martin, what on earth? What was that for?” Jon says angrily. Martin just grins and slips his hand even further so it’s resting just beneath Jon’s collarbone. Jon immediately squirms away.

“ _Why_ are your hands _freezing_?” Jon hisses at him.

“Terrible circulation,” Martin answers. “Genetic, I’m afraid. Are you going to let me up now?”

“All right,” Jon says, and Martin is endeared all over again by how sulky he sounds.

“Do you want some tea?” Martin asks, getting up.

There is a pause. “Yes.”

Martin leaves Jon there and goes into the kitchen. He stores the groceries, and puts the kettle on, and by the time he comes back with tea, Jon is dead asleep on the bed, curled around the imprint Martin left behind in the sheets.

  
  
  


Martin still sees the lighthouse some days.

He hasn’t told Jon about it. Jon always worries so much every time Martin steps out on his own, insists on coming with him. But they’ve agreed that if it’s been too long without a statement, Jon shouldn’t be going to the village.

On cold days, the walk from the safehouse to the village is bleak and gray, and the warmth of their bed, of Jon, is harder and harder to remember. On those days, Martin will see fog gathering on the horizon, and a familiar lit steeple. It’s still waiting for him.

But so is Jon. Jon needs him to come back to him. Jon sent Martin away with a kiss, told him to wear a scarf before going out, and Martin had wrapped Jon’s faded green scarf around his neck just to see the uncertain happiness on Jon’s face, like he’s still not sure whether this love is for _him_. 

Every time Martin sees the lighthouse, he turns his back on it and keeps walking.

  
  
  
  


The first time Jon says “I love you”, Martin drops a mug of tea on the ground.

Martin’s first instinct is to apologize, to find something to clean up the mess on the ground, but he’s frozen still, and so is Jon. They stare at each other from across the cabin.

“Did you mean that?” Martin says inanely.

Here, Jon almost scowls. “Yes, of course I did,” he says, defensively. “I — I love you, all right?”

“You said that already,” Martin says. He steps around the tea and walks to Jon.

“I did, didn’t I?” Jon says, and the corners of his mouth begin to turn.

**Author's Note:**

> Find me on [Twitter](https://twitter.com/star_strung).


End file.
